Under the specious pretext of love, Frederick has bereaved me of all the
happiness and comfort of life. While I fondly dreamed of future bliss he
became a visitor at our house. I knew not then that ’twas to see me
alone he came, as he had not given me the least hint of it; but my
parents imagined he was wooing me to become his bride.
It was some time before he paid any direct addresses to me. He then said
that he had long been in love with me, but forbore to mention it sooner
as he feared I would discard him; and ended with asking if he might be
permitted to hope. I gave him no positive answer, until he enquired
whether I had a partiality for any other. I told him I had not. His
countenance brightened at this. He took my hand, and with all the fervor
of love raised it to his lips. When he departed, he said, that was the
happiest moment of his life.
After this his visits were more frequent. One evening I was left
entirely alone, the family had gone to the theatre. Mrs. M----, a lady
from England, made her first appearance on the New-York stage. A slight
indisposition occasioned my not being of the party. Frederick, it seems,
knew I was alone, and came in just after they had departed.
The next week had been appointed for our nuptials. He entered rather
dejected. I enquired the reason of his melancholy. He said he was
fearful I did not love him sincerely. I asked if I had ever given him
reason for such a suspicion; and said that all beside him were
indifferent to me. Here his countenance again assumed its wonted
brightness. “Do you then indeed behold me with pleasure?” said he.
“I know that on you alone depends my felicity---should you be cruel,
Frederick would cease to exist.” He took my hand, and imprinted on it a
profusion of kisses. To me he appeared sincere, and I viewed him as
singled out by fate for my companion thro’ life.
“Ah! my Maria!” continued he, still holding my hand clasped in his, “did
you but know the happiness your words have given me---It is
indescribable.---Still manifest for me your love, and every hour of my
life will study to deserve it. Should I ever prove myself unworthy your
tender regard, I should abhor myself.” He continued protestations of his
love---the minutes were swift--and ere the evening had elapsed he
triumphed over my innocence and credulity---in fine, he left me
miserable.
When my parents returned I beheld myself degraded below them, and unfit
for their company. I sat in a musing posture. They attributed my want of
spirits to the head-ach, which had occasioned my staying at home, and
endeavoured to enliven me by giving an account of the entertainments,
and the excellent performance of Mrs. M----. I paid no attention to what
they said. To bed I went, but not to close my eyes: Sleep had fled me.
In the morning I had a slight fever, and was at times delirious. In a
few days I recovered sufficiently to learn that Frederick had set out
for France the day after he rendered me so completely miserable. This
occasioned a relapse, and I had approached the verge of the grave. My
friends were weeping over me, expecting every moment to be my last.
I wished not for life; I sought for death as the only means to conceal
my shame. But it pleased Heaven to raise me, contrary to all
expectation. In two weeks from the time I began to mend, I had strength
sufficient to leave my room, I then found it too true that my deceiver
had left home, and did not expect to return in two years.
I dreaded staying any longer where I expected the resentment of my
father, when he should become acquainted with my disgrace. I left the
house under cover of the night, unperceived. I took with me a small
bundle of clothes, and some trifle in cash, which were my own. By
working I hoped to subsist until Frederick’s return; for I still thought
his voyage was of necessity, and unexpected. The money was soon gone,
and almost every article I could possibly spare. I expected to starve.
In this dilemma, I chanced to hear of a place where a young woman was
wanted for the upper servant in the kitchen. I applied, and obtained it.
The wages were liberal, and I had not the more laborious part;
I endeavoured to give satisfaction to my employer, I lived in this
manner until I was taken ill, when I gave birth to this child--I called
him after his father.
My recovery was slow; and when I could walk I was unable to work as
before; consequently I was forced to give up my place. Since then I have
wholly subsisted on the charity of others.
This morning, by accident, I beheld the cause of my woes. I determined
to speak with him although he was in company. When I first accosted him,
he disregarded me. I told him I was in a poor state of health, and
requested only a small boon. “Is that your child?” he asked. “Yes,”
I replied, “and his name is Frederick.” He looked me in the face, for I
perceived until then he did not know me--“I have nothing for you!” he
exclaimed in an angry tone, and passed on with his companions. My head
felt light, and I certainly should have dropped on the pavement, had not
heaven sent you to my relief----